


International Relations, of a Sort

by OrangeScript



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Jily, Bisexual Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Desi Harry Potter, Desi James Potter, Draco is the prince of england, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, First Son Harry Potter, Fluff and Angst, Gay Draco Malfoy, Harry is the son of the US president, M/M, Modern AU (no magic), Modern Royalty, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, President Lily Potter, Prince Draco Malfoy, Red White & Royal Blue AU, background romione, poc characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26602786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeScript/pseuds/OrangeScript
Summary: Harry Potter, First Son of the United States, has never made a secret of his distaste for the Prince of England. As far as he knows, the dislike is entirely mutual. But when a political gaffe threatens his mother’s ambitions for a second term, Harry and Prince Draco are forced to put aside their differences and make nice for the cameras. Despite the fact that Draco’s less of a dick the more Harry gets to know him, and that their supposed bromance is trending on Twitter, there’s nothingactuallygoing on between them. Really. It’s called acting. (Until it isn’t).(Drarry Modern AU, based on the plot of the novelRed, White & Royal Blue)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 65





	1. Cake & Circuses

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Hope everyone is doing as well as they can be given the state of the world in general. I know it's been really rough lately for pretty much everyone. One of the things that has made my life a little better lately is the book Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston! I definitely recommend you check it out if you haven't read it. It's an adorable modern gay romance between a fictional Prince of England and First Son of the United States. I loved it so much I decided to write a Drarry AU. This fic is stand-alone so you don't need to have read the book to know what's going on (it's my job to tell you haha) but this fic will contain some spoilers for the book. I've actually written in advance for this fic and planned it out (which is very new for me lol) so hopefully I can update more regularly! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Special shout-out to my ~~editor~~ [Sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throughout/pseuds/throughout) for reading through all my crap!

* * *

There’s a flash of a camera. 

Harry pictures the photograph in his mind, zoomed out: the guests looking on in horror, the Prince of England and the First Son of the United States tangled up like brawling teenagers and sprawled out in a puddle of shattered glass and spilled champagne.

 _Yep, that’s me,_ Harry thinks hysterically to himself. _You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation_. 

* * *

**_Two days earlier..._ **

“ _Blegh_ ,” Harry slumps into the White House Game Room. 

His two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, are already inside, settled on the floor: Hermione’s sitting cross-legged, chewing on her bottom lip and fully engrossed in something on her laptop. Ron has stretched his lanky body into an approximation of a long, ginger, freckled rug.

“You look like shit,” Ron observes from the ground, rolling his head to look at Harry. “What’s wrong with you? ”

“He’s just gotten out of a meeting with Lockhart,” Hermione says, briefly glancing up from her screen. 

Harry has, in fact, just gotten out of a meeting with Lockhart, the part-time Ken doll and full-time narcissist who happens to be the White House publicist.

“Ugh,” Ron grimaces; like Harry, he is no fan of Lockhart’s. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling, probably going through his google alerts on the three of them, which is one of his favorite pastimes.

“Apparently,” Harry announces, flopping down next to Ron, who unceremoniously plops his socked feet in Harry’s lap, “‘The age of the power couple is over, and the age of the power friend group is in!’” Harry quotes mockingly, using his fingers to make air quotes. “And I guess ‘attractive, multiracial millennial friend groups’— _those are his words, not mine_ —poll well with Millenials,” He explains to them, rolling his eyes.

The Lily Potter White House public relations strategy capitalizes on social media in a way no other White House before hers has. Harry and his friends, whom the media have dubbed “The Golden Trio,” have occupied central roles in the public eye and starring roles in White House media outreach because of their apparent appeal to the younger voter demographic. 

Harry, as the First Son, would likely have been in the limelight regardless, but it has been a little more bearable with his best friends by his side. It’s a natural grouping: Ron is the youngest son of Lily’s mild-mannered VP, and Hermione is the only granddaughter of the tough-as-nails Secretary of State. But they also just _fit_ together _—_ Hermione keeps them honest, Ron can be counted on to take the edge off when any of them get too stressed, and Harry likes to think he keeps things interesting.

“Who has the highest approval rating?” Ron wants to know, his thumb pausing over his phone screen.

“Hermione, of course,” Harry answers. 

Ron shrugs in acceptance because, whether he’ll admit it or not, he is and always has been Hermione’s number one fan. “Hard to beat an MIT-educated data scientist taking down white supremacy,” He concedes.

Hermione lifts her head, looking pleased, but rolls her eyes. “Since when do I have the highest approval rating? Last I heard, my hair was dirty and my wardrobe was shabby.” 

“Listen, that tabloid was _racist—”_ Ron begins hotly.

“I know,” Hermione waves her hand dismissively. “It’s just funny is all.”

“But, Ron, get this,” Harry continues, “Apparently the idea of you and me being in a romantic relationship polls really high with Gen-Z, so if the fancy strikes you…” Harry wags his eyebrows flirtatiously.

“First of all, you couldn’t handle me,” Ron snorts, absorbed in his phone again. _Apparently,_ the fact that he is straighter than a ruler (and madly in love with their best friend) isn’t worth the mention. 

Ron wiggles his toes in Harry’s face and Harry makes a show of waving his hand in front of his nose to dispel the smell. “Second of all,” Ron continues, “ _Damn,_ you go through Weasleys fast—oh here’s one about Ginny again.” He chortles, “Oh my God, Harry, _look.”_

He shows Harry the trashy tabloid article on his phone. It’s a picture of Ginny—Ron’s little sister and Harry’s former girlfriend—side-by-side with one of a younger Lily Potter, Harry’s mom. The headline reads: ‘Oedipus Sex: Why Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley are Endgame.’”

Harry chokes on his spit. “Oh God _ewwwwww,”_ he groans.

Hermione looks up from her laptop again to frown at the article. “They don’t even look alike,” she says exasperatedly. “Is the article basically saying that he’s going to marry Ginny because she and his mom are both redheads?”

Ron scrolls through the article, skimming it. “Yeah, that’s basically the gist.” 

“Well if it’s a redhead you want, Harry, then you might as well date Ron while your approval rating is high,” Hermione advises with a straight face. “Two birds, one stone and all that.”

“I guess the world’s determined that we belong together! What do you say, Harry, are you down?” Ron lifts a stinky socked foot to Harry’s face, and Harry swats it away.

“Honestly, at this point if I were going for a redhead, I’d go for Charlie,” Harry says contemplatively.

“Oh my god, you really are going to plow through the Weasleys,” Ron moans. “Why Charlie?”

“Have you seen his calves? They’re gigantic.”

“My calves are good too! See?” He once again shoves his socked feet in Harry’s face, pulling up the legs of his jeans to showcase his hairy calves. 

Harry fends him off with difficulty, laughing.

“Oh,” Ron says suddenly, abandoning his attack. “PresidAunt Lily offered me a job on the reelection campaign,” 

Harry cracks a smile at the title Ron’s taken to calling his mom

“Me too!” Hermione says brightly. “I’ll admit, politics aren’t exactly my thing, but it might be a good project to work on during my gap year while I think about grad school—”

Harry hides a smile at Ron’s delighted face; he knows his friend is already planning how the two of them will bond while working side by side on the campaign. “Hang on,” he says, registering what’s been said. “My mom asked both of you and not me?”

“Oh,” Hermione says, looking caught off-guard. “I think she thought you wouldn’t be interested, but I’m sure she’d love to have you work on the campaign, if you want to?”

“I’m not interested,” Harry admits. “I just—I dunno.” _He just...what? Felt left out?_ He looks at his friends. Hermione’s the genius who graduated a year early from MIT with a double major in Gender Studies and Data Science and Ron’s in his senior year of Political Science at Georgetown. They both have marketable skills that would actually be useful to the campaign. 

Harry’s changed his major so many times he’s not even sure what it technically is right now. _Sociology,_ he remembers, because that’s what major he was able to scrape together with all the random classes he’s taken. 

“Right, so are you guys gonna take the jobs?” He asks.

“Oh absolutely,” Ron declares from the ground, on which he has once again flattened himself. “It’s better than I could’ve expected, honestly; I thought I was gonna have to do an unpaid internship in my _dad’s_ office after I graduated, but a paid policy position on a presidential campaign while I’m still in school? _Sweet._ What ‘bout you, Hermione?” He rolls his head to look up at her.

She smiles faintly down at him, and there’s something fond in her eyes that gives Harry hope for Ron, who is hopelessly gone for her. “I think so,” she says. “I need something to do while I apply to schools.”

“What schools are you looking at?” Harry questions, curious. “Is the plan still to do a PhD in data science?”

“I’m, well, I’m actually thinking about law school,” Hermione answers, biting her lip as if she’s just said something embarrassing. “Like civil rights or human rights law? It just, I don’t know, feels right I guess, and it would be a good way to try to do some good in the world, maybe.”

Harry studiously avoids Ron’s face so that he doesn’t crack up and embarrass him; he doesn’t think his friend could look happier if he’d just won the lottery. Ron’s plan has always been to go to law school, then follow his dad into politics. And honestly, if anyone can make the pivot from data science to law it’s Hermione. “I think that sounds wonderful, Hermione,” Harry tells her warmly.

“We can study for the LSAT together!” Ron agrees excitedly.

Hermione ducks her head, not meeting their eyes. Her dark, frizzy hair falls in front of her face.

“Wait,” Harry says, recognizing the sheepish tell of an overachiever. “Oh my god, you’ve already taken it! Go on, what did you get?”

Her head still ducked, Hermione turns her laptop screen towards them. 

“A 179!?” Ron scrambles to a sitting position, yanking his stinky feet out of Harry’s lap.

“What’s it out of?” Harry asks.

“180!” Ron shouts, looking gobsmacked.

“Of course it is,” Harry says, rolling his eyes but grinning widely. He reaches over Ron to pull Hermione into a side hug, “Well done, Hermione. You’ll make an amazing civil rights lawyer.”

“Why is it you’re good at everything?” Ron complains, but he’s smiling as well and he scoops Hermione into his own hug. “Congrats, Hermione,” He says into her back, words muffled by her long, bushy hair. “I guess you’ll have to help me study now, huh?”

The door opens. “Aww, a group hug! This is so cute!”

“Ginny!” Hermione exclaims as they break apart.

Sure enough, Ginny Weasley, Harry’s former girlfriend and Ron’s little sister, is standing in the doorway, smiling tiredly. She’s decked out head to toe in UCLA gear and carrying a giant duffel bag.

“I didn’t know you were flying in!” Harry says, grinning at her. “How was the flight?” Ginny’s across the country at UCLA, playing soccer and studying journalism, so he doesn’t get to see her all too often, but it’s always great when he does.

“Exhausting,” Ginny replies with a sigh. “The guy next to me felt the need to take off both his shoes _and_ his socks.”

“Gross.” Ron pronounces, wrinkling his nose, like he hasn’t just been shoving his own malodorous feet in Harry’s face. 

“What’re we hugging about?” Ginny asks, dumping her duffel onto the floor and shuffling towards them, letting the door close behind her.

“Hermione’s a genius,” Harry summarizes.

“Well we already knew that,” Ginny laughs, wagging her arms for her own hug; Harry and Hermione obligingly lean in. 

“Why are you here?” Ron asks with his trademark tact. “Ouch,” he mutters when Hermione elbows him in the ribs.

Ginny rolls her eyes, flopping down to join them on the rug, “The Royal Wedding, duh.”

“Shit,” Harry says. “When is that again?”

Ginny and Hermione both look at him incredulously. “This weekend. Saturday. We fly out tomorrow?” Ginny prompts him. “Literally every news station has been covering this non-stop. Ring a bell? No?”

Harry groans, covering his head with his arms. “ _Ughhh._ Any chance I can get out of it?” He asks his hands.

“Without causing an international incident, not to mention a presidential dressing down from Aunt Lily? Uh, nope.” Ginny responds blithely.

“Cheer up, Harry, it could be fun,” Ron tries. “Funny accents, funny hats, lots of food,” He perks up. “I bet they’ll have those tiny little sandwiches. Buckets of them! I swear, food tastes so much better when it’s tiny and there’s a ton of it!”

“I’m excited for the alcohol,” Ginny proclaims. “I may not be legal here, but I’m legal in the UK!”

“Like that’s ever stopped you,” Ron snorts.

“Do you know they’re serving a $275,000 bottle of champagne?” Hermione asks interestedly. “I read it in _People._ It’s a thirty liter bottle, solid gold. It weighs 100 pounds.”

“That’s _obscene_ ,” Harry says into his arms, disgusted.

“What the hell does 275 grand even taste like?” Ron wonders.

Ginny grins. “Looks like we’re gonna find out.”

“Stop moping, Harry,” Hermione admonishes. “We’re so lucky to be invited. So many people would do anything for a chance to go. It’ll be fun.” 

“But... _He’ll_ be there,” Harry shudders.

“Who?” Ron frowns.

Ginny gives Hermione a significant look that Harry, peeking out from the burrow of his arms, doesn’t appreciate.

Then, “ _Har-_ ry’s _boy-_ friend!” Ginny sing-songs obnoxiously.

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend,” Harry says sullenly. “I don’t know _why_ you keep saying that. He’s...my archnemesis.”

“Who?” Ron repeats blankly.

Hermione sighs. “Prince Draco,” she clarifies. “He and Harry have a bit of a...rivalry.”

“More like a _romance,”_ Ginny declares with all the false authority of Harry’s former romantic partner.

“It’s not a romance!” Harry growls, “I just hate him.”

“Oh, the blond guy,” Ron says at last. He wrinkles his nose, “With the pointy face. Yeah, he’s a dick. He sorta looks like a ferret.”

“Thank you!” Harry says, gesturing grandly with his hands to emphasize how thankful he is that _someone_ is being sensible. 

Privately, however, he doesn’t think Draco looks like a ferret at all. In fact, if anything, he’s unfairly attractive: all swoopy blond hair, chiseled jaw and blown-glass cheekbones, like a porcelain person. It’s karmic injustice, Harry thinks, that the shittiest people can also be the prettiest people.

“Who’s even getting married?” Ron wonders. “Is it Ferret Boy?”

“No, it’s the other one,” Ginny says. “Prince Cedric. His hot cousin.”

Ron makes a noise of recognition. “Oh yeah, the one that looks like Edward from Twilight!” He snorts. “Pity he hogged all the good vampire genes and left Ferret Boy with the ferret ones.”

“It’s not like Draco’s _ugly,”_ Harry says, the words spilling out of his mouth without his prior knowledge or consent.

Three faces turn to look at him. Ginny grins broadly. 

“I mean, like, I don’t think he’s _hot_ or anything,” Harry backtracks, his ears burning. “Obviously. But like, objectively, I mean. He’s not, you know, ugly.”

Hermione gives him a sympathetic look.

Harry wants to crawl in a hole and die. “I still hate him,” he says feebly. “Whatever.”

Ginny pats his hand comfortingly. 

...

The next day is a trans-Atlantic blur. It’s an eight-hour flight, the first half of which Harry and Ginny largely spend tossing peanuts into a snoring Ron’s open mouth while Hermione frowns disapprovingly. When Ron wakes up, (after choking on a mouthful of peanuts), he and Harry start a _Fast & Furious _ marathon, which they unwisely continue when they reach the hotel in London. 

Saturday, the day of the wedding, is a ludicrously early morning for all of them. They’re all jet lagged except for Hermione, who synced her sleep cycle on the plane. Harry and Ron blearily stumble into their shoes and knot their ties as Ginny runs madly between their connecting hotel rooms shrieking about her hair straightener and her mascara and her shoes, and Hermione, fully dressed already, patiently helps her search. 

Harry will admit, the actual ceremony is kind of nice. It’s also like six years long, or so it feels with his butt on the hard wooden pew in the way back of the church from which he can hardly see a thing. 

The bride is a beautiful woman named Cho Chang, the daughter of the English ambassador to China. She and Prince Cedric cut a striking couple, Cho with her doe eyes and satiny hair, swathed in lace, and Cedric grinning and rakishly handsome in his navy dress uniform. The pair of them look like a walking advertisement for modern-day monarchy. Harry has the embarrassing thought that they’re going to have the hottest children he’s ever seen.

They’re finally at the reception. The American delegation (or whatever you call two Secret Service agents and the four adult offspring of top American government officials) has gotten a table to themselves, situated behind the iced monstrosity that is the wedding cake, (it’s got six tiers and could probably feed a family for a year—apparently they’re going to cut it _with a ceremonial sword)._

Ron has requisitioned a platter of his long-awaited finger sandwiches exclusively for the table; he’s currently got a mouth and two hands full of them. 

There’s one of those towers of champagne glasses in the center of the room, a pyramid of delicate glasses filled with the most expensive champagne in the world, stacked taller even than Hagrid, the seven-foot-eight giant of a Secret Service agent who’s assigned to Harry. Harry has never seen a champagne tower this large, and thinks it’s a disaster waiting to happen. 

He’s been discreetly checking the labels on the champagne bottles, and the cheapest one he’s seen so far is a $200 Dom Perignon. The most expensive is the one Cho and Cedric poured together into the champagne pyramid, the Armand de Brignac 30-liter Midas that Hermione talked about, in its gigantic solid gold bottle. 

It is, Harry maintains, absolutely _obscene._

Ron is salty because some famous Bulgarian soccer player asked Hermione to dance before he could and she said yes, so he’s currently eating his feelings about it. Hagrid is the only other one at the table with them, happily chugging pumpkin juice and watching the festivities. 

For his part, Harry’s on his fifth glass of champagne, mostly out of boredom, but also because he’s felt inexplicably wired all night. 

He thinks he sees Bill (Ron and Ginny’s oldest brother and the White House Head of Security) dancing with a French supermodel. 

Harry’s not much of a dancer, himself, but he was planning to ask Ginny to dance at least once. For all her fancy footwork on the soccer field, she’s got two left feet on the dance floor and is the only person he’s met who’s a worse dancer than him (not counting Ron, who’s abysmal). Plus, she’s always got something funny to say about the people around them, so it’s a guaranteed laugh, even if they’re stepping on each other’s toes the whole time.

Hermione whirls by with her Bulgarian soccer player, giving Harry an exhilarated look as she passes. He waves, and squints at the dance floor, looking for someone he can ask to dance. 

He spots the stupid prince before he spots Ginny, and feels his heart race with anticipation. Harry’s hate-read his Wikipedia page a few times before, in his weaker moments, and knows that they call him “the Malfoy Rose,” like he’s a type of rare plant, and not a dickhead of a person and an artifact of an archaic institution. It’s so much worse than Cedric’s nickname, “the People’s Prince.” 

Like the rest of the Royal Family, Draco doesn’t technically have a last name, but he’s part of the House of Malfoy, and Harry knows (again, from Wikipedia), that he used ‘Malfoy’ as his surname in school. That’s good enough for Harry, who doesn’t believe that an asshole like _Draco_ should get the privilege of being called by only one name, as if he’s some sort of pop icon.

Malfoy’s dancing with Ginny, the jerk, and he apparently doesn’t even have the decency to pay attention to her. It’s not just that Ginny’s tiny (she is) and Draco’s tall (he is), but he’s actively looking over the top of her head, like he’s _bored_ of her and is looking for the next poor girl he can entrap with his pointy face.

Harry is offended on behalf of Ginny, who he thinks is way out of Draco’s league, (she was certainly out of Harry’s). Ginny’s great. Ginny’s _interesting,_ wearing a designer silk dress paired with her ratty green high-tops that she’s gotten signed by the entire US Women’s National Soccer Team, plus Sue Bird, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and Harry’s mom, for good measure.

Draco could ask about the shoes. They’re right there, bright green and ugly and interesting, and instead Draco’s just looking resolutely over the top of Ginny’s head like Ginny and her interesting shoes don’t even exist.

Harry bets Draco’s never done an interesting thing in his life. _Prince Draco_ , in his stupid waistcoat and stupid suit with his stupid hair. Harry hopes Draco will look his way, so he can flip him the bird.

He briefly considers cutting in and asking Draco to dance, really giving people something to talk about. Harry wonders how the royal dickhead would like _that._ He’d be so surprised, so uncomfortable, the homophobic asshole. _That_ would be interesting. Harry watches Draco dip Ginny with surprising elegance. Stupid Draco. Stupid prince. He’s probably _allergic_ to interesting.

Harry’s ticked off already, and then a photographer glides by where Ginny and Draco are dancing and snaps a picture of the two of them, and Draco smirks a little, to himself, like he _wanted_ that to happen, like he’s using Ginny to start rumors, and then Harry’s _pissed_.

“He’s fucking using her for a picture,” Harry fumes at Ron, picking his sixth glass of champagne off the tray of a passing server.

“Huh?” Ron articulates, looking up with half a sandwich hanging from his mouth.

“Malfoy. Prince Draco. Whatever,” Harry says, gesturing to where Malfoy is twirling a laughing Ginny and the photographer is faithfully documenting it.

“Oh,” Ron says inelegantly, shrugging. “Honestly, Ginny’s probably just as tickled knowing she might be on the cover of a tabloid with a prince.”

“He’s _using_ her,” Harry hisses, incensed.

Ron studies him carefully through watery blue eyes. “Harry, you don’t still have feelings for Ginny, do you?”

“No, Ron,” Harry sighs, annoyed, taking a sip of champagne. _Why doesn’t anyone understand that Malfoy is a terrible human being and everything he does is terrible?_ “I just don’t like stupid blond princes messing with my friends,” is what he goes with, aware that he sounds petulant.

“In that case, Ginny can take care of herself,” Ron advises sagely, patting him on the back. “It’s best not to get involved, honestly, I’ve found.”

Harry doesn’t agree, but he says nothing, instead pilfering a tiny sandwich from Ron’s pile and stewing in silence. 

He watches Draco’s shining blond head move through the crowd and scowls at it. He finishes his champagne to Draco faking laughs at members of Parliament; Draco smiling, showing all of his perfect white teeth; and Draco dancing with beautiful women.

It’s when Draco starts chatting with Hermione, who’s standing by the champagne tower, her burly Bulgarian nowhere in sight, that Harry decides enough is enough.

“Hermione, is he bothering you?” Harry asks abruptly as he approaches the two of them, avoiding a puddle of wine on the floor. 

They both look up in surprise, and Hermione’s brow instantly furrows as she takes him in. “Harry, no,” she says, looking concerned. “It’s fine. Do you want to sit down? You look a little…” She trails off.

“Plastered,” Draco offers bluntly. “Shitfaced. Off your trolley.”

Harry feels humiliation course through him. His face is hot with it. He’s tipsy, sure, but he’s certainly not drunk. Hermione wouldn’t know; she doesn’t drink, and Draco’s just being a dick.

“Don’t fucking talk to me that way,” Harry says belligerently, taking a step closer to Draco so that he’s in his face. 

“Harry,” Hermione says distantly, sounding embarrassed.

Draco wrinkles his nose in displeasure. “Good God, you reek,” he says, disgusted. 

Harry breathes on his face, because he can. Maybe he’s a little drunker than he thought.

Two men in suits start to approach them, but Draco waves them off. 

“Let’s go, Miss Granger,” Draco says, looking away from Harry like he’s nothing more than a drunk nuisance and offering Hermione his arm. 

Harry feels his blood beating in his ears. “She’s not gonna dance with you,” he says loudly.

Hermione looks at him with a touch of annoyance on her face. 

“I don’t think you can or should speak for the lady,” Malfoy says, looking at Harry with unconcealed disdain. Harry feels like a fly on a windshield.

“You’re being a little too _white-knight_ for the twenty-first century, Harry,” Hermione agrees more gently. “I think you should go back to the table. Have some water.”

“Hermione, he’s a fucking racist,” Harry snaps.

Draco recoils like he’s been slapped. 

“Excuse me,” the prince says, dropping Hermione’s arm and making to leave.

 _“Harry,”_ Hermione says, her eyes narrowing dangerously, and Harry knows, even in his drunken state, that he has messed up.

“Wait,” he sighs, reaching for Draco’s sleeve.

The prince jerks violently away from him, but Harry’s foot slips in the puddle of wine on the ground, and then he’s crashing into Draco’s back.

Draco lets out a surprised _“oomph”_ and topples into the table bearing the champagne tower, Harry on top of him.

There’s a moment of creaking breathlessness, and then the giant tower careens and falls. 

The sound of hundreds of tiny glasses breaking is deafening in the silence, and then there are screams from around the room, and $275,000 champagne is gushing onto the floor. 

And Harry and Draco are in the middle of it all—flat on their asses in crunchy glass and still-flowing champagne—blinking stupidly at each other. The sleeve of Draco’s suit is clutched tightly in Harry’s fist. Harry’s cheek is stinging. There’s a small shard of glass embedded in his forearm. Draco’s bleeding from a shallow cut near his eye and his white dress shirt is soaked through, nearly translucent from the champagne.

There’s a flash of a camera.

 _“Fuuuuuck,"_ Draco swears, squeezing his eyes shut.

Harry couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's chapter one! Hope you liked it. Don't forget to drop me a comment; I'd love to hear from y'all! As I said in the first note, I've actually written ahead for this fic so hopefully updating will be less sporadic. There's been a lot of bad news in the world lately and I wanted to just release this cute escapist fanfic in case it could bring anyone else some comfort! 
> 
> Lots of Love,  
> OrangeScript


	2. #ChampagneGate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tags are hashed

_ Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! _

Angelina Johnson, the White House deputy chief of staff, slaps four magazines down onto the table of the West Wing briefing room in quick succession.

Harry grimaces down at the headlines:

**“Things get FIZZICAL at Royal Wedding #ChampagneGate”**

**“First Son Pops Off, Bride Cho Chang in Tears After Potter’s $275,000 Gaffe”**

**“Pour Decisions: Does Harry Potter Have a Drinking Problem? #ChampagneGate”**

**“Champagne? More like ChamPAIN: Prince Draco is rushed to hospital after FSOTUS** **_pushes_ ** **him into champagne tower!”**

Harry scoffs at that last one. It’s not like  _ he  _ didn’t also have to drop trou at the ER and get glass pulled out of his ass, and he  _ certainly _ didn’t push anyone.

He looks up at the two others in the room, ready to tell them just that, but Angelina’s face is absolutely lethal and the protest falters in his throat.

Gilderoy Lockhart looks as cluelessly genial as ever as he picks up one of the magazines. “Harry, this lighting is terrible for your complexion,” He clucks, looking down at the disastrous photo of Harry and Malfoy sitting dumbly on their asses in the broken glass. “And I hesitate to say it, but your nose looks absolutely unfortunate from this angle.”

“Sorry,” Harry shoots back sarcastically. “Next time I fall into a tower of glass with the Prince of England, I’ll make sure they get my good side.”

Lockhart just nods affably as if this is a perfectly adequate solution. “Good boy. Well if that’s all cleared up,” He says, getting up from his chair and dusting off the shoulders of his peacock blue suit.

“Sit the fuck back down, Lockhart,” Angelina snaps, eyes not leaving Harry. She picks up  _ The Daily Mail _ and starts reading: “Royal Wedding Disaster! Cho and Cedric’s big night was ruined when Harry Potter, First Son of the United States,  _ bubbled _ over with rage…”

Harry groans. The champagne puns are getting ridiculous.

Angelina ignores him and continues reading, “...And  _ attacked _ Prince Draco. His Royal Highness was rushed to the hospital for treatment of his injuries. Was this merely a drunken, champagne-soaked stumble? Or was it something more nefarious? Sources say that Harry Potter has had it out for the young British Royal for ages. Was #ChampagneGate actually a clumsy assassination attempt on the heir to the throne?”

Harry groans again.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Angelina asks evenly, peering at him over the paper.

“Come now, Angelica,” Lockhart protests. Harry sees Angelina’s eyes narrow at the error in her name, but she doesn’t bother to correct him. 

“It was just a schoolboy tussle, eh, Harry?” Lockhart continues, shaking Harry’s shoulder in support, and Harry grimaces. Somehow, Lockhart coming to Harry’s defense makes Harry feel like even more of a shithead. “Boys will be—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Angelina orders, her voice deadly. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Tell me why there is an invoice for over a quarter of a million dollars worth of spilled champagne sitting on President Potter’s desk.”

“There is no  _ way _ they’re making us pay for it—” Harry starts hotly.

“They’re not,” Angelina cuts in. “But it’s a passive aggressive reminder that the Crown is  _ Not Happy. _ Not to mention, our friend Tom Riddle just tweeted this.” She holds up her phone.

Harry and Lockhart both lean in to look. 

It’s a meme: That cursed picture of Harry and Draco in the broken glass, coupled with the caption “Lily Potter’s Foreign Policy in a Nutshell” and the tag  _ #PotterForeignPolicyFail. _

“Oh,  _ hell  _ no,” Harry growls. 

Even Lockhart looks uncharacteristically ruffled. “Forty-five thousand retweets and it’s barely been two hours,” he says, studying the tweet. He takes out his own phone, sinking back into his chair. “#ChampagneGate is trending at number one,” he reports, scrolling. He looks up grimly, “#PotterForeignPolicyFail is at number four.”

“Fuck,” Harry swears, his heart sinking. He hadn’t really thought that this would have actual political consequences for his mother.

The door opens and President Lily Potter herself breezes into the room in her red power suit, a travel mug of coffee in her hand.

“Morning Ange,” she says. “Gilderoy,” she nods at Lockhart, and then fixes shrewd green eyes on Harry, her eyebrows raised. 

Harry winces.

“My little baby boy, all grown up and causing international diplomatic crises,” she says drily, setting her travel mug down on the table and placing a stern hand on her hip. “Had a nice night, Potter?”

“No,” Harry mumbles miserably, slumping in his seat. 

Lily pats his back without sympathy. “Gotta hand it to you, honey,” she says. Her voice is equal parts exasperated and fond. “This is definitely a new one for me as a parent. Do you know, your father cried himself to sleep last night?”

Harry rolls his eyes, slightly comforted by the dry humor in her tone. “Only if he was laughing so hard he cried.”

“Oh, he was,” Lily replies, smiling. “And he facetimed Sirius and then they laughed and cried together. They want to get that photo blown up onto a big piece of canvas to put on the mantle in the Red Room.”

“Glad someone’s getting enjoyment out of this,” Harry grumbles. He glances up and sees Angelina about to pop a stress vein in her forehead. She is  _ definitely _ not someone who is getting enjoyment out of this.

“Anyway,” Lily says. The smile is gone, replaced by a thin line between her brows. “I’ve got a conference call with Netanyahu in six minutes. Honey, it’ll be fine—just listen to Angelina, okay? Please don’t stress her out.”

Harry thinks the train has already left the station on that one, but he keeps that thought to himself.

Lily kisses Harry on the head and leaves, and then it’s just him, Angelina, and this strangely serious (and dare he say, almost competent?) Lockhart. 

Watching Lily’s smile fade from her face has left Harry feeling worse than before, despite her clear attempt to make light of the situation. He’s suddenly weighed down with guilt.

“Bromance,” Lockhart says suddenly, snapping his fingers and looking up. “People love a bromance.”

“That was my first thought, too,” Angelina agrees reluctantly. She looks at Harry. “And that’s what we’re going with. I’ve been conferencing with the Royal press team and the Prince’s handler all night.”

“What do I have to do?” Harry asks defeatedly, his stomach churning at the thought of  _ Draco Malfoy _ and  _ Bromance _ in the same sentence.

“You’re going to be his best fucking friend,” Angelina says, pointing at him. “You’re going to braid each other’s hair and exchange bracelets and hold hands and sing  _ kum _ -fucking- _ bayah. _ Look at me, Potter.”

Harry’s already looking at her. With great effort, he tamps down on the urge to make a face.

“Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t care,” Angelina informs him. “If there’s a camera in spitting distance, he’s Oprah and you’re Gail and he’s the funniest, most charming fucker on the planet. Got it?”

“Got it,” Harry grits out.

“Buckingham Palace and the White House are releasing a joint statement today. TL;DR: You and Prince Draco are  _ close personal friends,”  _ She ignores Harry’s grimace of disgust, “And have been for years. What happened at the wedding was just a bit of playful physical humor—or whatever the fuck it is men are doing when they slap each other on the butts and bump dicks—gone awry.”

“Who’s bumping  _ dicks?” _ Harry splutters.

Angelina disregards this and smacks Harry’s passport onto the table. A brand new boarding pass is sandwiched between the pages.

“Pack a bag,” she says grimly. “You leave in two hours.”

“I have class,” Harry protests.

“You should’ve thought of that before you threw the world’s most expensive, geopolitically significant tantrum,” Angelina says sweetly. 

“I think there are, like, world wars that would better qualify for that title,” Harry says, affronted. 

“Fortunately for you,” Angelina continues, ignoring him once again, “Tomorrow’s Labor Day and you  _ don’t _ have class on Tuesdays, so you’ve got two days free to kiss some royal ass.”

Harry glowers at her but says nothing.

“Oh, and memorize this,” she says, slapping a piece of white paper down on top of Harry’s passport.

Harry looks down at it. It’s titled  _ “HRH Prince Draco Fact Sheet.” _

“Oh, _ Kadavulai,”  _ He says dramatically. “What’s even on there? Hobbies: Brownface and KKK bonfires with the boys?”

“You’re hilarious,” Angelina deadpans. She addresses the room at large: “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” Lockhart says suddenly. 

Harry had honestly forgotten that he was there. The man has been silently typing away at his phone like a well-coiffed piece of peacock silk furniture with a technology addiction.

“Harry, I’ve DM’d you the social media strategy,” Lockhart informs him.

Harry checks his own phone and sees that Lockhart has, in fact, DM’d him—because even when he’s being professional, Lockhart’s personal brand is very specific. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Angelina says. She’s scrolling through her own Instagram DMs and balancing about fifty file folders in the same hand. She uses the other hand to give Lockhart a rare and definitely begrudging thumbs up. “We’ve got twenty-four hours to turn this story around. Potter, if you mess this up, I swear to God—”

“Got it,” Harry says hastily, picking up the  _ HRH Prince Draco Fact Sheet _ and his passport. 

He glances down. Recreational Brownface and KKK bonfires are not among the hobbies listed. But fencing, hunting fowl, and competitive yachting are. He makes a face at the fact sheet. 

“Did he get one of me?” Harry asks, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “What did you put on it?”

“Harry Jackass Potter. Hobbies include: Ruining my fucking life and fucking everything up,” Angelina tosses over her shoulder without missing a beat, halfway out the door already. 

Harry isn’t sure why he expected a serious answer.

~

…

Several hours later, Harry is glumly chewing spearmint gum in the backseat of a sleek black Range Rover, trying to get the taste of airplane out of his mouth. Hagrid is snoring next to him. 

Harry focuses on the smooth brown head of the man in the driver’s seat, the glinting gold earring that dangles from his left ear. He’d introduced himself as Kingsley Shacklebolt, the prince’s “ _ equerry _ ,” which he’d kindly translated as being the one in charge of handling the prince’s schedule.

Harry personally thinks Kingsley is far too cool for such a mundane job running behind  _ Malfoy, _ of all people.

Kingsley is tall, copper-skinned and broad-shouldered, with a regal, reassuring voice and a ridiculously handsome face. He looks like a pharaoh in a double-breasted navy suit. 

“The spaces for you to sign are marked,” Kingsley is telling Harry pleasantly in his warm accent, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

Harry glances down at the thick packet in his hands that Kingsley’s just gone over. It’s a non-disclosure agreement larger than  _ War and Peace. _ Someone in the Royal Family must be into some weird shit for it to be this long, Harry thinks wryly, but this isn’t his first rodeo, so he scrawls his name on the indicated line.

The other document in his lap is the itinerary for his visit.

Right now, they’re driving to meet Malfoy for a Tour of the Grounds because this is  _ Downton Abbey,  _ apparently. The ‘tour’ is really just a poorly-disguised photoshoot, designed to allow a Royal photographer to capture evidence that he and Malfoy don’t want to kill each other. 

Harry doesn’t envy whatever poor sod will be tasked with editing the permanent sneer on Malfoy’s stupid snooty face into something approaching civil.

Tomorrow, they’ve got a charity visit at some hospital in the afternoon, followed by a late-night appearance on Graham Norton.

“Where are we meeting Malf—er… Prince Draco?” Harry asks idly.

“The Royal Stables,” Kingsley answers, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “He’ll be taking his mount out for some exercise.”

Right. Harry makes a face. “Will he be wearing shining armor?” He mutters, wondering if Malfoy realizes he’s a walking stereotype.

Kingsley chuckles. “Not this evening, no,” he replies. “Tomorrow morning, though, he’ll be wearing armor. Of a sort.”

“Why, does he have an early appointment rescuing damsels from distress?” Harry asks drily.

Kingsley rumbles out another chuckle. “Fencing practice, actually,” he says. The car pulls up into a gated area and Kingsley rolls down his window to type a code into a keypad. “You should come watch; I help him train,” he tells Harry when the gate opens. He salutes a guard in a fluffy hat and drives through.

The stables are bigger than Harry’s house. Well, not the White House, but the one they lived in before.

Malfoy’s dressed like a Ralph Lauren mannequin and seated on top of a gorgeous black horse, his hair artfully tousled.

He looks stupid. Harry glares at him as he approaches.

“Potter,” Malfoy greets him coolly, arching a superior blond eyebrow as he gracefully dismounts his horse and hands the reins to a stable-hand. “How refreshing to see you standing upright for a change.”

“How refreshing to see you with pants on,” Harry shoots back, referencing their shared time in the Royal A&E, lying side by side in beds on their stomachs as doctors tweezed shards of glass out of their asses.

He hadn’t _ seen _ anything, obviously; they’d drawn the curtain around Malfoy’s royal backside. Still, Harry notices with interest, Malfoy colors visibly at Harry’s words.

Before he can answer, a stylist in lavender is fluttering around them. She dabs at Harry’s face with blotting paper, straightens his collar, and attempts twice to flatten his hair before giving up. Harry’s offended when she merely brushes a lock of Malfoy’s hair out of his face and declares him perfect. 

Especially when Malfoy throws him a smug look over the stylist’s shoulder.

“Alright,” says the photographer, an eager-looking twig of a kid who can’t be older than nineteen. “I’m Colin,” he introduces himself, veritably vibrating with excitement. “Filling in for my da, Your Royal Highness.” He bows, his body trembling. 

And then the kid is addressing Harry, his eyes huge and bright. “And you’re Harry Potter!” He exclaims, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand enthusiastically. “I’m a huge fan! Could I possibly get a picture with you for my Instagram?”

“Er, sure?” Harry answers, bewildered, looking sideways at Malfoy.

“Awesome!” Colin says. “Er, Your Highness, would you mind…?”

Harry’s jaw drops when Colin hands the camera to _ the Prince of England _ , and sidles up next to  _ Harry. _

Draco plucks up the proffered camera with raised eyebrows. “Of course,” he says, his voice infused with dry sarcasm. “It would be an honor to photograph a  _ celebrity _ like Mister Potter.”

Harry flushes, but steps closer to Colin, who reminds Harry of nothing so much as an overexcited puppy. “He’s joking,” he reassures Colin, whose face has drooped into uncertainty at Draco’s tone, even though Harry doesn’t know anything about Malfoy’s sense of humor. “He’s happy to do it.” 

Draco makes an unconvincing snort, but doesn’t say anything, instead fiddling with the camera with his long, elegant fingers. “Say cheese,” he says drily, bringing it up to his eye.

“Cheese!” Colin shouts happily, and Harry smiles weakly next to him.

The camera flashes, and Harry winces.

“Brilliant!” Colin says, rushing over to check the photo. “Oh, that’s a good one! Thanks for that, Your Highness!”

“It’s alright,” Draco says awkwardly, handing off the camera. He glances at Harry, and his gray eyes become unreadable. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Harry nods, determined to be civil.

... 

“Alright, for the first one, maybe just shake hands?” Colin suggests, after he and Malfoy stand there looking at each other for a solid minute.

Gritting his teeth, Harry extends his hand to Malfoy, who peers at it with regret before grasping it gingerly. They both turn to look at the camera, grimacing.

Colin snaps a picture.

“That was good!” Colin says encouragingly, because apparently the kid is a sweetheart and a liar. “How about this time, you guys try to act like you like each other?” He suggests, peeking his huge blue eyes out from above the camera.

“But how?” Harry mutters, before he can stop himself.

“Charming, Potter,” Draco says through his teeth.

“Always,” Harry snipes back, but then he does a double take, because suddenly Draco’s smiling at him, warm and open and fond. The smile touches every part of Draco’s face, softening all of his features.

The camera flashes.

“Awesome!” Colin says. “Harry, could you maybe close your mouth and try smiling?”

Harry feels his cheeks heat up. Malfoy lets out an inelegant snort, and Harry remembers that they’re just acting. It’s something he’s never been good at.

He looks up at Malfoy, and tries to picture Ron, or Hermione, or Ginny. Someone he likes. But all he can see is Malfoy, slightly pink from exertion, with his ridiculous white-gold hair and that warm look in his eyes and that soft, sunlit smile that makes Harry want to smile back.

The camera flashes again. “Ooh, that was a good one!” Colin proclaims.

“Here,” Malfoy says suddenly, looking at Harry, his brow furrowed. “The stylist—your hair... Let me—” And then he’s reached over into Harry’s space and is mussing Harry’s hair with one hand, and Harry kind of short circuits.

“Hey!” Harry attempts to dodge him, outraged, but Malfoy tugs him toward him with their joined hands. “What the hell, Malfoy!?”

“Hold still, Potter,” Malfoy growls, his teeth gritted. “I’m trying to help you, you daft idiot—”

The camera flashes yet again, and Harry distantly wonders if Colin understands that the whole point of this photoshoot is to pretend that Harry and Malfoy are  _ not _ mortal enemies. 

“There,” Malfoy says, finally ceasing his attack on Harry’s hair and giving him an exasperatedly pleased look that confuses the living shit out of Harry.

Harry glowers up at him, his hands going to his head to try to counteract whatever damage Malfoy’s inflicted.

“Stop that,” Malfoy orders, batting away his hands. “It looks better this way.”

“He’s right,” Colin pipes up, snapping another picture. “It’s like bed-head, but sexy. Like sex hair!”

Harry thinks he might die.

His whole face on fire, he extends his hand to Draco again, prepared to ignore the remark and go back to taking the stupid handshake picture, but Draco is busy glaring at Colin.

Colin has the grace to look cowed, peeking out over his camera once more. “Sorry!” he squeaks.

Draco turns away from their photographer and offers Harry a stiff hand, his face bland.

Harry accepts the hand and tentatively smiles up at him. 

Draco makes an irritated noise, but his features relax, and then he smiles again—that warm, happy smile and _God,_ is it a good smile and also… _what the fuck is happening._

The camera flashes again.

Colin looks down at the picture on his camera screen. “Perfect!” He says, beaming at them and giving them a thumbs up. 

Harry drops Malfoy’s hand immediately and avoids his eyes, inexplicably not wanting to watch them turn flat and cold again. His heart is racing and his face feels too warm.

_ Acting,  _ he reminds himself.  _ Just acting. _

The rest of the photos pass in a daze. Malfoy’s apparently a far better actor than Harry realized, and it’s almost easy to follow his lead, to laugh when Colin tells them to laugh, to look genuinely interested at where Draco’s pointing an elegant finger at nothing, to smile up and and look into his eyes like Draco’s someone he  _ wants _ to look at.

…

Harry skips dinner with the Princes and goes to bed early.

Of course, then he wakes up in the middle of the night, his stomach rather loudly demanding food. He ventures out into the quiet stone hallway outside his room.

He remembers Kingsley pointing out a kitchen somewhere on the way to his room, so he wanders in search of that.

The castle’s eerie at night, creaking with age and wind, the portraits and candelabras throwing looming shadows when Harry lifts his phone flashlight to examine them. He passes a portrait of a large lady in a pink dress, and her eyes seem to follow him as he walks past her.

He wonders what it’s like, to live in a castle like this. He thinks he and Ron would have a ball exploring; they’d drag Hermione out of the library along with them, of course, and she’d complain and snipe at them, but she’d love it too. 

Harry wonders what it’s like for Draco, living relatively alone in this giant palace. He must get lonely, Harry thinks, before wondering why he’s thinking about Draco at all. 

When he passes a painting of what appears to be trolls learning ballet, he FaceTimes Ron to show it to him.

Ron picks up on the second ring, and his freckled face fills the screen from the nose up. “Blimey, ‘Arry!” He greets him cheerfully in an exaggerated attempt at a British accent. “Bloody Hell!”

“Is that Harry?” Another voice says from the background.

“Hermione?” Harry asks.

“Give me the phone, Ronald.” The second person says bossily, and yes _ , _ that’s  _ definitely  _ Hermione’s voice.

There’s a brief fumble, and then Ron’s face is taking up a more respectable quarter of the screen, and Hermione’s sitting next to him.

Ron waves.

“Hey guys,” Harry says, grinning. “Look at this painting!” He shows them.

Ron gets a kick out of it, as Harry knew he would, and Hermione identifies the artist as some 19th century Jewish painter named Barnabas whom Harry has never heard of.

Harry turns the camera to face himself once again.

“Harry, it’s 2 am there!” Hermione scolds. “Why are you still up?”

“Ah, give him a break, Hermione,” Ron says easily. “He’s had to deal with the Royal Ferret all day.”

Hermione frowns at him.

“Speaking of,” Ron says, looking at Harry with unconcealed amusement. “How is Operation BFF going?”

“It’s actually been kind of okay so far?” Harry says, looking up with relief to see that he’s found the small kitchenette. 

He flicks on the light and hops onto the countertop, propping the phone up in front of him. He tries to think of how to explain the photo shoot—Malfoy’s impeccable acting and that soft smile, Malfoy  _ ruffling his fucking hair... _

“Oh, get this,” Harry says, laughing at the memory, “So we had to take photos today, and the photographer was like this nineteen-year-old kid, and I guess he wanted a picture with me, for some reason?” Harry shrugs. “So, I shit you not, he actually  _ handed the camera to Malfoy and asked him to take a picture of us.”  _

Ron snorts, his face gleeful. “Oh that’s  _ good _ ,” he cackles. “Oh my God, I can’t even imagine his face.”

Hermione looks a little uncertain. “He probably thought that was unprofessional,” she says worriedly. “I hope the photographer doesn’t lose his job or anything.”

“Oh,” Harry says, surprised. “I don’t think Draco would do anything like that. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just funny.”

“Oh, he’s  _ Dray _ -co now?” Ron asks, drawing out the first syllable dramatically. “Should I be worried?”

“Shut up, Ron,” Hermione says exasperatedly. 

“I just want to make sure Harry knows that he’s got one best friend, and it’s not Prince Drakey-O over there.”

“You’re right,” Harry returns smugly. “I do have one best friend: Hermione.”

Ron makes an offended noise and Hermione rolls her eyes and smiles at Harry. “I’m glad you two are getting along.”

“Getting along may be a bit of a stretch,” Harry admits. “But I’m trying.” He gives Hermione a sheepish look. “Hey, I’m really sorry about the wedding; I know I embarrassed you. I’m an idiot.”

Hermione smiles, all fond forgiveness. “Yes you are,” she agrees. “But you’re our idiot.”

Ron mimes retching from his side of the screen, and Hermione elbows him.

“How’s it going back in DC?”

There’s a sudden noise down the hall, and Harry looks up sharply, just as Draco himself rounds the corner into the kitchenette and stops abruptly, blinking at Harry in drowsy surprise. 

“Harry, what is it?” Hermione’s voice comes from the phone.

“Hey guys, I’ll call you back,” Harry says quickly, ending the call before either she or Ron can respond.

And then it’s silent except for the general creaky ambience of a giant old building, and Harry and Malfoy are staring at each other.

Until today, Harry’s always associated Malfoy’s face with sharp angles, but standing there in the threshold, he looks so  _ soft _ . He’s barefoot, bleary-eyed and tousled from sleep, in a wrinkled white undershirt and a pair of plaid pajama bottoms riding low on his hips.

Harry can’t help but let his eyes graze the sliver of exposed skin between the bottom of Malfoy’s shirt and his waistband.

“I always imagined you’d sleep in, like, silk pajamas or something,” Harry blurts out, because he’s an idiot.

Malfoy stares at him, nonplussed. and then quirks a smirk, but it is sleep-softened and not nearly as cutting as it is in daylight.

Of course, that’s completely ruined by his next words: “Imagine me in bed a lot, Potter?”

Harry’s blood freezes in mortification. “That’s not what I—no—” He stutters.

Malfoy just laughs and makes his way past Harry, to the fridge. 

“Why are you even here?” Harry asks defensively, hopping down off of the countertop. Kingsley had said the Royals were on a different floor. 

Harry’s stomach takes this moment to make a loud, gurgling plea for food.

Draco snorts. “Same reason as you, it seems,” he says, waving in the direction of Harry’s rebellious stomach. “Sustenance,” He proclaims, like the douche-bag he is. He’s opened the refrigerator, and is hunting through it.

“You don’t have a kitchen on your floor?” Harry asks, curious. That seems like a major design flaw in a castle.

“We do,” Draco replies, “But I’m out of the good stuff, and I knew yours would be all stocked up.” He lifts a hand to wave some strange British brand chocolate bar in the air.

“So you’re looting from the Indian,” Harry says, before he can help himself. “That’s on brand.”

Draco merely snorts and rolls his eyes, straightening up and closing the refrigerator. He tosses something at Harry.

Harry catches it reflexively. It’s a cold spinach wrap.

“Pity,” Draco comments drily. “I was rather hoping to watch that hit you in the face.”

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “You wish, Malfoy. What’s this for?”

“You missed dinner, you insufferable prat,” Draco says, tearing open his chocolate bar with his teeth. “And I’m a kind ruler; I take care of my subjects.” He winks and then turns to walk away. 

Harry considers throwing the spinach wrap at his retreating back, but he refrains because he’s a man of  _ honor. _

His stomach grumbles. And that too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like it, hope you're staying safe, and (if you're able and in the US) remember to vote! leave me a comment in exchange for my eternal and undying love :)


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